Magic Tricks
by HoistTheColours
Summary: James Bond isn't always there to save the day. When Q is abducted, it is one of those times.
1. Chapter 1

"You want me to do _what _with him?"

"To field train him." At 007's incredulous look, the new M sighs and leans back in his chair, his long fingers creating a steeple, elbows propped on the desk in front of him. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You act as if it's impossible."

"Isn't it?" Bond deadpans in all sincerity.

He glances over at Q who is seated next to him in a dark, overstuffed chair that threatens to swallow him whole. He hasn't said a world since this ridiculous meeting began, but he notices the younger man's expression has changed in the form of his eyes narrowing into thin, murderous slits. His gaze is focused straight ahead, staring attentively at the large painting that hangs on the wall behind M.

Bond thinks that Q is probably imagining the mural falling on top of M's head.

Bond is rather imagining the same thing.

"In the event that something should happen to him, or he finds himself in a comprising situation, he needs to know how to handle himself. He needs—"

Q finally speaks up at last, interrupting M with a clearing of his throat as he adjusts his glasses. "I hardly think that'll be necessary." The corner of his mouth upturns a bit, perhaps a bit too arrogantly. "I'm not completely incapable of defending myself if the situation were to present—"

"Its safety protocol," M finishes for him. He would have shrugged his shoulders had the sling over his left arm not prevented him from doing so. "You have to go through the training. I don't know what else to tell you."

Q looks down and presses his lips in a thin line.

Bond sighs.

"And why do I have to be the one who trains him?" he inquires, leaning forward a bit. "I don't exactly have a lot of free time on my hands."

"Oh, you will. I've passed your assignments along to other agents. In fact, I think you'll soon realize you have all the time in the world." M smiles lightly.

Bond scratches the back of his neck, a force of habit when he feels flustered. "This is absurd," he says, exasperated. "I mean, look at him. He's so…" Bond looks over to Q and Q looks over at him, raising his brows expectantly as if _daring_ Bond to insult him. Bond frowns. "Skinny," he finishes.

When M bows his head to sigh, Q mouths to Bond, "_Skinny? Really?__"_ as if he is terribly unimpressed.

"I'm giving you a month. In five weeks when your time is up, we'll run some tests and evaluate his progress. Any questions?"

"An entire month. Are you sure that's going to be enough time?" Bond quips. The morning sunlight pouring in from the windows adjacent him is suddenly entirely too bright and it's giving him a headache. _It__'__s never this bloody sunny in London, _he thinks.

He desperately wants a drink.

"I can make it three, if you prefer," M replies.

Bond gets up from his chair, buttons his suit with one hand. "One will do."

When he stops in the doorway to find Q still seated, he sighs. "Are you coming?" he asks, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

Q gets up without a word and follows him down the corridor.

"Do you work out?" Bond asks once they've left M's office. "Well, that was a stupid question," Bond considers before Q has a chance to answer. "Clearly you don't. I mean have you _ever_ worked out. In your life."

Q knows he should feel insulted, or offended, but in all truthfulness he isn't. It's the same jibes he was taunted with in grade school, and he learned to deal with them long ago so he doesn't have to now. He can't help it if his talents are more inclined towards his brainpower than his physical prowess.

"If running through a line of classmates while being assaulted with rubber balls count, then I suppose I have."

"You mean dodge ball."

"Yes."

They're shuffling up a flight of stairs now, the lights are dimmer.

"Secondary school P.E. doesn't count."

Bond opens a door and Q follows him into a dark room that overlooks the training facilities from the second floor; they are hidden by a two-way mirror. There's a new recruit training below them, shooting a Smith & Wesson M&P22 Rimfire pistol with muffs over his ears to lessen the sound. Q recognizes the model because he's dissembled one before and hundreds of others like it.

All on his laptop, of course.

Bond walks over to the table in the center of the room and pulls out a blank pad and pen from the desk. Q stands by the two-way mirror, half watching the shooting below—which is entirely muted due to the room being soundproof—and half watching Bond as he scribbles away.

"What do you eat?" Bond asks without looking up.

Now Q turns fully to face him. "Beg pardon?"

"Eat." His pen pauses and he looks up. "You do eat, don't you?"

"Eat." Q seems to think for a minute. _What in bloody hell is he going on about?_ "Of course I eat, but I don't see how that's relevant to—"

"I'm going to put you on a diet. You'll follow it religiously." Bond's tone leaves no room for debate.

"A diet."

"Is it a habit of yours," 007 suddenly inquires, looking up from the notepad with obvious annoyance, "to mimic absolutely anything and everything I say?"

Q clears his throat, clasps his hands behind his back. "In the morning I have tea, sometimes followed by toast with jam."

"And for dinner?"

Bond has resumed writing.

"If I'm feeling particularly hungry, I happen to be very fond of Chinese."

"Takeout, you mean."

"Yes."

"That's going to stop. Starting today." After a moment of silence, he rips off the sheet of paper and stands to hand it to Q.

The younger man looks over it quizzically, eyes widening a fraction.

"It's a daily calorie intake you should meet, as well as menu of foods you should be eating throughout the day."

Q is unimpressed and meets Bond heavy stare with one of his own. "You do realize this is more food than I consume in a month."

"I'm aware of that."

Q doesn't want to do this.

Bond has turned his attention to the shooting range, watching the newest recruit with a critical eye, while Q simply stands there, fighting the urge to crumple the paper in his hands and discard it in the nearest trash receptacle. This is utter bollocks he thinks. _James Bond_, he then corrects himself, is utter bollocks. This isn't what he signed up for. Not at all. He feels safe behind his laptop and his screens—he can do most anything from there, flip the English monarchy on its side and then right it again in a matter of minutes—but this is far beyond his comfort zone.

Without another word, Bond turns to exit. "Be here at five AM. No later," he says over his shoulder.

If Q is surprised at the premature hour Bond has requested, he doesn't show it, and instead adjusts his glasses as he watches Bond leave.

Just as 007 is about to open the door, he turns to face Q once more.

"And for God sakes," the agent says, hand ready to push open the door, "don't show up in one of those bloody cardigans."

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ Hello, hello, hello! Thank you all for taking the time to read this! This is my very first Skyfall fic, so I hope it isn't too terrible. This first chapter is pretty light at the moment, and fairly dialogue heavy as well, but as the story progresses, I promise it's going to get very dark, and may venture into M-rated territory if I feel is necessary. If there are any inaccuracies, or if you'd simply like to see the story continued, please feel free to let me know. Comments and reviews are always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Q's alarm buzzes at 3 dark thirty.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs, turning off the alarm while rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He's never been a morning person, a consequence which he blames on all those late nights spent typing away at his laptop.

He blindly reaches for his glasses on the nightstand—he is hopeless without them—and places them on his nose, too tired to care if they are slightly askew. He pushes the hair back from his forehead next and opens his laptop—his first duty of every morning—when it suddenly hits him that today is the start of his training.

He's never wanted to sink back into the covers so badly.

He checks his email (nothing that can't wait until later), runs a few lines of code, briefly checks the video feed from the hidden camera he has set up outside his flat (despite the drastic increase in his paycheck, he still lives in a sketchy area), all before finally deciding to climb out of bed and into the shower. He strips in front of the mirror in the bathroom, waiting for the water to warm, and can't help but study his appearance when he's naked. He isn't surprised Bond reacted the way he did yesterday; he knows what he is, how he looks, and what he's capable of. His abdomen is flat and hard—though devoid of any real definition—and his hips bony and protruding. He's hardly the epitome a well-fit twenty-something. Not that that's ever really bothered him. Until now.

He abandons his appearance in the mirror and steps in the shower, letting the hot water wash away his doubts. He decides he sort of wants to prove Bond wrong. He wants to show him he's more than just some skinny little kid who sits behind a desk all day, keys flying across the keyboard. That's never really impressed anybody, he figures. He remembers his mum wanted him to be an athlete. "You should join sports, dear," she'd try and encourage, mostly because she wanted to get him out of his room, and also because she wanted to get him away from the artificial glow of any electronic devices.

Maybe it's not too late?

So in the shower he does a few minimal stretches. Tugs his arms behind his back, touches his ankles (it's as far as he can dip without bending his knees), and stands on his tiptoes till his calves ache, trying to flex little known muscles he hasn't really used in a while. By the time he turns off the hot stream of water, he feels almost relaxed.

That is until he rereads Bond's "menu" and realizes his meal for breakfast alone is more than he eats in two days.

"I don't even have half of these things," he mutters to himself, pulling open his fridge to find a half-used carton of eggs and a little bit of milk, cheese, and bagels.

He sighs and pulls them out.

At 4:57, he is at MI6 headquarters, where it is dark, empty, and quiet; not surprising, considering the ungodly hour of the morning. When he goes to his desk, he finds a note there from who he assumes is Bond.

_Gym_, is all it reads, as if he couldn't have been bothered to write more. Additionally, Q notices the coffee mug on his desk is slightly askew, as well as a file of papers he had neatly arranged in a manila folder.

_James Bond, did you really think you could rummage through my things without leaving any trace of your perusal? _

He decides not to question it and instead makes his way towards the gym. It's on one of the lower flowers, he soon discovers, and when he pushes open one of the two, heavy metal doors to enter, his eyes sweep the room to find Bond nowhere in sight.

_Bloody hell, does he expect me to do this alone? _

The room is all floor-to-ceiling glass mirrors and smooth, polished back floors. It's sterile and cold, almost like a hospital, he thinks, except darker, something strangely intimate and almost sensual about the dim lighting, polished wood, all-black equipment, and the over-sized mirrors. The ceiling is high and spacious; there are no windows, and it is so silent he can hear his heart thrumming in his chest like the beat of tribal drums.

He knows immediately he doesn't belong. There are rows upon rows of treadmills, stationary bicycles, heavy weightlifting centers, and very, very scary looking machines and contraptions he can't even begin to guess what part of the body they're used for. He tilts his head a bit and squints behind his glasses when he's pretty sure he's just spotted a medieval torture device—and that's when Bond strides in from a door in the back corner, opposite of where Q entered. He's wearing gray sweats and his t-shirt is soaked with sweat, forming a dark 'T' down the front of his chest.

_He's already started? _

"How long have you been here?" Q asks, suddenly feeling self-conscious of his pale legs and thin, undefined arms.

"Who said I left?"

Q raises his brows but otherwise lets him walk past without any further questions. Why 007 would want to spend the entire night in this hellhole is beyond him.

"Did you have breakfast?"

"I did."

Q is succinct.

He doesn't really feel like talking today. He feels like the less talking, the better. And the sooner they can get this over with.

"Alright." Bond gestures with his head for Q to follow him, and then stops once they are standing behind one of the many treadmills lined in a neat row. This is where Bond gives him a onceover that makes Q purse his mouth and meet his stare head-on. Bond seems to reconsider something. "Right. We're going to start with something simple. It'll get your blood pumping and your muscles loose. After thirty minutes you'll stretch." Then he pats the machine as if it were a horse and says (with a very sardonic smile), "Hop on."

Q clears his throat and gingerly steps onto the machine, as if it_ is_ a horse and it's going to gallop away from him if he isn't careful. Bond adjusts the settings so that it's set at 5.0 (a comfortable jogging speed) and Q gets to work.

_Well, this isn't so terrible_, he thinks.

He watches in the mirror as Bond steps onto the treadmill next to him and sets a slightly faster pace. Then they're both jogging.

Q is not ashamed for noticing the way Bond's muscles flex so easily when he runs. There is the rhythmic swing of his arms at his sides, his biceps flexing at every swing, all accompanied by his calm, measured breathing. This is a piece of cake for him.

It just reminds Q that 007 is everything he is not.

Bond looks up to catch Q staring at him in the mirror, so Q quickly averts his gaze and focuses on the stats that are flashing on the screen in front of him. He's burned seven calories so far. He decides to focus on that and watches the numbers climb as he jogs. Maybe he'll burn enough calories that his body will wither away into nothing and he'll turn to dust right there…**.**

For a while it's silent, save for the sound of the machines and the steady slap of sneakers against the rubber strip.

At fifteen minutes in, Q is breathing pretty hard now, and his lungs are starting to ache and his abdomen feels tight and there are sweat stains on his shirt. He groans a bit in his throat, desperate to keep up the pace. _Fifteen minutes left. You're halfway there._

He's going to try to focus on something else, let his thoughts drift to lines of computer codes and failsafe security systems and possibly the way he's going to feel when he sinks into bed later that night and not move for an entire month.

He _was_ going to think about those things, until Bond interrupts his thought process completely.

"Hanging in there?"

This time when Q looks up at the mirror, it's to find Bond staring at _him_. He turns his head sideways and 007 does the same.

"If that's what you want to call it," he says, wishing he didn't sound so breathless.

"You're doing good," Bond tells him.

Q doesn't reply.

After thirty minutes is up, (the slowest half hour of Q's life—he swears someone tampered with the clock to make it tick a fraction slower), he presses the emergency stop button as the rubber mat slows beneath him. Never has he been so relieved. When it comes to a complete stop, he puts his hands on his knees and tries to find his breath.

But before he can, there is a heavy hand on his shoulder from behind, urging him to stand back up.

"Don't lean over like that. The air won't circulate."

Q does as he's told, too exhausted to disagree. His hair is sweaty and damp and sticks to his forehead in all sorts of ridiculous directions, and he pushes it aside with the back of his hand. Bond hands him a plastic water bottle.

"Drink."

He does. Finishes the whole thing in one gulp, and Bond pauses mid sip to watch Q tilt his head back and chug the entire thing.

007 chuckles as he caps his water bottle. "You're going to regret doing that."

Q wipes his mouth on his wrist when he's done. "Probably."

He's still breathless when Bond gestures for him to join him by some intimidating-looking weights. He guides him through a few basic stretches to loosen his muscles, and Q has to admit they do feel sort of good. Bond knows what he's doing, done this a million times before, and Q knows he's in good hands, even if the man is egotistical and infuriating and probably couldn't tell the different between an ATA cable and an IDE cable. Honestly, 007's lack of computer knowledge sort of appalls him, as does the fact that it's seemingly _impossible_ for Bond to bring back any of Q's very expensive gadgets all in one piece.

Still… he has to give Bond some credit. He sort of expected the agent to just stand there as he instructed Q what to do; he hadn't expected Bond to do everything with him.

Q lifts his head and pauses mid pushup to watch Bond lower and raise his arms in quick succession across from him. It makes Q want to work that much harder.

At noon, Bond instructs Q to get some lunch and return in an hour. Q, grateful for a break, finds himself slumped at the table in the room above the training center—in the dark—as he attempts to ignore the screaming ache of his muscles. He doesn't feel like eating. He doesn't feel like doing anything for the next six months, actually.

He knows, however, that he should get something in his system otherwise he won't have any energy, so he forces down a power bar that leaves a weird, bitter taste in his mouth of artificial chocolate and sour peanut butter.

When his time's up, he returns to the gym and waits for fifteen minutes for Bond to show up, sitting on the treadmill patiently, and wondering what the agent could possibly be doing. He taps his fingers against his thigh, waiting, waiting, waiting, before deciding to get up and look for Bond.

There's a door in the far corner of the room, so he decides to start there. When he opens it, he finds a sterile room with counters and cabinets and an examination table with the seat covered in crinkly, white paper. The room is empty.

He tries the adjoining door next, which leads into a corridor that branches off into a his and hers locker room of sorts. He branches into the left one, upon where there are rows of stainless steel sinks, showers, and a long bench in the center separating the two.

He finds Bond seated there on the bench, facing away from the sink so he doesn't have to see himself in the mirror. He holds the neck of a bottle of whiskey in one hand.

Q's sneakers squeak against the black tiles, alerting Bond of his presence. Bond only half turns to acknowledge him.

"Having a drink?" Q asks.

It's a moment before Bond speaks.

"What was he bloody thinking," the agent mutters, looking down, "passing on my assignments so I can train you?"

Q considers his rhetorical question. "Perhaps they thought you needed to recover. After Skyfall and… M."

Bond turns his head sharply to look at him. He looks angry. "Well I'm fine. You heard it from me first. I'm fine."

Q presses his lips together, silent. It doesn't matter how many times Bond repeats the phrase, Q knows he is not 'fine,' and his tone indicates as much.

And then, suddenly, an almost foreign feeling of sorrow creeps over Q, and he realizes he feels_ sorry_ for Bond. He knows all about the agent's close relationship with M—when you have the key to England's biggest military secrets, there are certain files and certain people you are _wont_ to research—and consequently he feels as if he knows Bond better than he knows himself. He's read all the files, seen the pictures, studied all of his psychological analyses.

And he has gathered this much:

Bond is an orphan. A seducer. And a killer.

But most of all he is lonely—and probably in desperate need of some kind of parental figure. Maybe someone he could come "home" to on the holidays. Someone he could care for and love in a way that isn't needy or sexual. Or maybe just someone he could simply call "mum" from time to time.

For Bond, M was that woman—and now she is gone.

Q is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice when Bond gets up from the bench. As he walks past, he presses a towel into Q's chest.

"You _really_ need a shower," he mutters.

And then he is gone.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**__ Hello again! First off, wow, thank you guys so much for all the kind words—and especially for following my story—41 of you!? Thank you! I would love to hear from you guys though—please leave some feedback if you feel so inclined. I don't bite, I promise!_

_Chapter three is really where things are going to pick up, so I hope you all are interested in reading more! And I have a question for you: how opposed are you to the idea of Silva still being alive? Or would you prefer seeing a new villain? _


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